


Vital Stars

by Lucy OGara (judo_lin)



Category: The Adventures of Sinbad (Canada TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24610036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/judo_lin/pseuds/Lucy%20OGara
Summary: When Maeve and Sinbad's child is threatened by Scratch and Rumina, Maeve must face the murky recesses of her past and make a deal with an old lover to save her life.
Relationships: Maeve/OC, Maeve/Sinbad (Adventures of Sinbad)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	Vital Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This story, like Bears and Water Baby, was written sometime between 1998 - 2001, under the name Cris (CrystalKeeper). They're the only stories from that time I still have copies of, due to a hard drive crash years ago. I never got around to posting the ending on any of the AoS forums or fanfiction.net, so here it is for the first time in its entirety. I've made no edits or changes to the text. I actually still really like the bones of this story, though the writing is childish and the historical references ludicrous, so who knows? I may come back and rewrite it one day.

The sky was dark and grey, threatening with rain. Frigid wind whipped the heather and gorse brambles, and whistled through tall, rocky outcroppings. A shaggy pony, nearly the same color as the darkening sky, ambled through the fallen, blackened skeleton of what had once been a large building. It nosed the scorched stones of the floor, mossy with age, and lipped at the weeds growing tall and green through the cracks. In one corner, the root of a nearby tree had cracked the stones completely and was peeping through the desolation.

In another hundred years, the land would completely claim this ruin. It would be as if nothing had ever happened here, as if no one had ever trod these stones but the mice, the deer, and the herds of wild ponies. The stones would remember, but nobody would know, in the time to come, how to speak their language. All other memories of this place would be long since turned to dust.

The grey pony pawed at a patch of weeds, dislodging a long, white bone from its resting place. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and a network of webbed lightning glimmered in the cloud cover. The coming night was a night for ghosts, and if ghosts lingered anywhere on the ancient island, they would certainly haunt this place, where so many lives had been cut short by the rage of invaders. The pony was old. He remembered, though few others did now, not even those who had been spared the massacre by the grace of his people. It was best that they all forget. No sense in human regret for things that could not be changed.

The wind whipped at his shaggy coat, and he turned away from the blackened shell of the building.

* * *

Sinbad was sleeping.

Maeve was under strict orders not to let him sleep, and she was very calmly and very deliberately disobeying them. She looked up from her book and studied him, across the small cabin, as he slept on their bed. Often he was quite fetching, she thought, as he slept, but not today. He slept the sleep of the deeply exhausted, snoring lightly through his nose, which was unusual. He lay where he had fallen, his neck bent at a strange angle that was sure to be uncomfortable when he woke. His hair had fallen in his eyes, and every now and then he twitched involuntarily, as if in response to his dreams. He was going to be mad when he woke up, but Maeve didn’t care. Served him right, getting so upset about something so minor and refusing to sleep for days until Cait’s fever had broken.

Her eyes flicked to the figure lying next to Sinbad on the big bed. Cait was sleeping, too, at the moment, but she was sleeping with more grace than her father. She lay very still, her red-gold hair spread over the pillow, her mouth slightly open and her cheeks pink. Her fever had risen so high that her little face had turned red and stayed that way, no matter how many times they had bathed it in cool water. Firouz said that the tiny rivers of blood under her skin had broken, but that they would heal with time and her normal coloring would return.

Maeve turned back to her book as she sat in a high-backed chair, listening to the seabirds outside the ship and the cracks and creaks of the Nomad as they moved gently through the water. Dimly she heard Doubar calling orders outside, and the answering shout from one of the crew. She was tired, too, more tired than she would like to admit, but she didn’t feel much like going to sleep. Though she would never have revealed it to anyone, even Sinbad— _especially_ Sinbad—she had been worried by the fever. She knew children got sick; she also knew that, more often than not, they recovered quickly with no ill effects. But this was not first- or second-hand knowledge of other people’s children, this time. It was her little girl, her firstborn, and she hadn’t realized just how much fear even a small illness could cause until it had happened. She was thankful they had managed to escape the more deadly sicknesses that claimed too many children before they reached Caitrionna’s age. Maeve hated the thought that something could happen, at any time, to the child she had carried and nursed, sheltered and protected, but she had learned to live with that sort of everyday fear.

She wondered, in the back of her mind, if that fear would decrease as Cait grew older—three years was still so young, so small—or when Cait’s brother was born. Maeve idly placed a hand over her belly. She had known for several weeks now that she was with child again, but had not chosen to tell Sinbad yet. He would find out in time, but she wasn’t ready to share her knowledge yet. Right now was her time for secret contemplation, for this power that the men in her life would never know, or truly understand. It was a power she herself didn’t understand—a power she feared, even—until she had conceived Caitrionna. It had taken her a long time, a very long time, to realize that power—longer than anyone on the Nomad would have guessed. She had had the secrets, the mysteries, of the Old Ways laid out before her for years during her youth, but she hadn’t been able to truly grasp them with certainty and assurance until her simple sailor unlocked something within her that made her understand.

The rest had been easy.

Sinbad stirred, and Maeve put her book down and went to him. She sat on the edge of the bed and touched his shoulder. He was turned away from her, collapsed on his side. Even in deep sleep, he stilled at her touch. She smiled and sent a tendril of thought out to him. He was not dreaming—he was too deeply asleep even for dreams—but the small thoughts that floated in his head were peaceful. Maeve disengaged from his mind very gently and did not wake him.

She went around the bed and sat down next to her daughter. Cait slept peacefully, and Maeve sent another gentle thought-probe into her mind. She was dreaming, in the simple way that small children dreamed. She was not as deeply asleep as her father, and she recognized her mother’s presence without waking. A tiny part of her mind reached out, and Maeve soothed it with a thought, wrapping her mind with warmth and reassurance. Maeve took her daughter’s corporeal hand, and the small fist wrapped around two of Maeve’s fingers and held them.

Maeve could not remember being so small. She wondered if Cait would remember, even vaguely, this illness or its aftermath. She wondered if Cait would remember what it was like to be the only child aboard the Nomad, or if the days before her brother was born would be utterly lost to her.

Slowly, for the first time in she didn’t know how long, Maeve stretched her memory to its longest. She thought about how far back she could remember, the markers of time that kept her memories separate and ordered. She remembered her triumphant return to the Nomad, certainly, and her training before that. She remembered her first travels with Sinbad and his crew, and her time with Master Dim-Dim before she had ever heard of a blue-eyed sailor who was whispered to be the master of the seven seas. She remembered her search for a teacher before Dim-Dim found her, and the journey that had taken her out of her homeland to this far, strange land. Before that…it was very difficult to pull the memories out of the obscuring haze of time. They were nebulous, disordered, unclear. So many times Sinbad had asked her, gently and with care, if she couldn’t tell him about her past before her journey to Master Dim-Dim. She cut him short every time, but she told herself it was because she didn’t want to remember. Now she wasn’t so sure if she could.

She looked down at her sleeping child. Maybe it would be important, someday. Maybe Cait would want to know, too. How could she deny her daughter the right to know one-half of her ancestry, her heritage? For Caitrionna’s sake, Maeve thought, she would try again. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, placing herself in a light trance-state. Instead of forcing the issue, she let her mind wander where it would. Sooner or later, it would have to take her back far enough so that she could remember.

* * *

The great expanse of sky was hidden by the towering buildings, but she didn’t notice. To her city-bred senses, it was completely normal to see only swatches of star-studded sky and a sliver of moon every now and again; the brick buildings were simply darker shadows in the fog-swathed night of Dublin-town.

She lounged against the side of the tall, red-brick building, sliding deeper into the alley’s shadows as a carriage clattered by on the cobblestoned street. Them swells wouldn’t take kindly to seeing her waiting here. Not many people who lived in this quarter would approve of her presence. She hastily slipped deeper still into the alley. The man she was meeting would not wish to be exposed, especially by the constabulary around here. Word was they worked directly for the magistrate.

"Boy." The word was not a question. He knew she would be here.

"Huh." She made sure her voice sounded properly gruff and raspy.

"Ye ‘ave the stuff?" She still couldn’t see him, but his breath swept over her, carrying the unmistakable sour taint of stale whiskey.

"Yeah."

"Show me."

She dug in her pockets and extracted a number of items of expensive jewelry. Jewels glinted dully in the foggy, back-alley night, faint light from the far-off gas streetlamps preventing it from being completely black.

The man’s large hand loomed out of the darkness, and she deposited the stolen jewelry in it, careful not to touch skin-on-skin. "A good ‘aul," he commented, a bag of assorted coins passing from him to her. "Ye sure ye doan want to werk fer me exclusively?"

"Nah," she said, attempting to keep her voice from shaking. Occasional jobs with this lout were necessary in order to make ends meet, but she would never become one of his personal thieves. He kept a tight rein over those poor boys, and if she were to become one of them he would assuredly learn her secret sooner or later. And her life was dependent upon the continuation of this masquerade.

There was silence on the thief’s part until she began to feel the first edges of real fear. Had it been wise to refuse his offer?

"Ye’d best ‘sider this again, boy," he said, grasping her tightly by the shoulder. "I feed’n’clothe me boys well. They’s got no room fer complaint."

She refused to let her body tremble from the man’s onslaught. No one had touched her, ever, unless you counted her stepfather’s backhanded blows when she was younger…well, that had been close to five years ago. She was rid of him now, on her own. And damned if she was going to let this man take his place!

He laughed, a short bark, and released her shoulder abruptly. "Ye’ve got clout, lad, I’ll give ye that." He backed away, but she knew he was not gone. "I be watchin’ ye, though. Soon, when ye get bigger and can’t fit in all those windows’n’chimneys, ye’ll want someone like me around. I’ll be waitin’ fer that day, boy."

His footsteps shuffled off into the night, and only then did she let herself relax. She pulled off her cap and let her short, close-cropped red hair fall down around her ears. No, she thought, never will I want someone like you around. She rubbed at her shoulder, where the man had touched her. The coarse, dirty cloth of her coat felt reassuring, and with the unaccustomed weight of money in her pocket, she went to find a place to sleep.

* * *

She woke just before dawn, to the sounds of the very first hawkers beginning to cry their wares. Thankful that the noise had awakened her, she crammed her cap back on her head, made sure her coins were still in her coat—safely hidden in the lining—and clattered down the steep ladders and stairs of the church belltower.

The priest met her at the bottom of the last flight of stairs. "Oh! I be sorry, sir, I didn’t see ye!" she stuttered, surprised. The old man smiled kindly and extended a hand to her.

"You spend much time in church for a child of the Old Ways," he remarked, and she flushed. The priest held out one gnarled old hand and beckoned to her. "Come, child. You’ve slept here all night and now I suppose you want breakfast, eh? Come, come, we will talk."

He led her through the main room to his own bare little cell. She looked around in awe—this powerful man didn’t live much better than she did!

The priest smiled kindly and waved her to a seat in a hard-backed chair. "I see questions in your eyes. You wonder why I have chosen to serve God if such servitude means I must live like this." He handed her a steaming mug of hot tea and a small plate with two bannocks. "To tell you the truth, I don’t really know myself." He smiled again, something he did a lot, and sipped at his own tea. "I always knew I would go into the ministry—God always called to me somehow. I do not mind living like this if it means I may preach God’s word." His eyes twinkled with merriment. "But that is neither here nor there. I see cunning in your eyes. You are an intelligent creature."

She swallowed nervously. "How’d ye ken I wasn’t Cath’lic?" she asked.

"The same way I know you’re not a boy."

She froze, her breakfast turning to sawdust in her suddenly-dry mouth.

"What is your name, child?" the priest asked gently.

"M-Maevelyn," she whispered, her brown eyes growing big as saucers.

"Yes, I see it in your eyes, you tell the truth. Please do not fear. I will not betray your secret." He let his eyes twinkle again. "Tell me, how you have survived on your own on the streets of Dublin-town?"

Maeve hesitated. "I’m…I’m a thief. A pickpocket."

"Ah." He leaned back in his hard chair and took a bite of his own breakfast. "Tell me your story."

Maeve poked at the remaining bannock on her plate, hesitating, unsure whether to trust this man. He was a man of the Church, a man who must live by his word, but still…

"Do not fear, Maevelyn. We will treat this as a confession, yes? Tell me."

She took a deep breath. "I…I ran away after me mum died."

"What about your father?"

"Don’t know," she said sullenly. "Got meself a stepfather…he be the reason I left, sir."

"Father," he corrected. "Are you saying you’ve been living on the streets like this for a while now? How long?"

"Sorry…Father. A few years now, I guess."

He nodded. "But you are quite obviously a child of the Old Ways. I can see it in you."

"Sir?"

"You have the look of something…something older than us. Something not quite of this world. No, you are but a child, you do not understand me. I don’t expect you to. But hear me—this place, this city, is not for you."

"What?"

"You heard me." He cocked his head to the side. "How old are you, child?"

"Fourteen," she said defensively.

"That’s about what I thought," he said, nodding. He rose and crossed to his desk, pulling a piece of paper out and writing on it. She sat where she was and finished the second bannock, rarely used to a full meal when she woke and prepared to make the most of it.

The priest returned after a moment with a folded bit of paper. He handed it to her and said, "Now, Maevelyn, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I may be a member of the Church, but there was a religion in these isles that was here long before we came and set up our churches and our monasteries. That religion is still very much alive, though the Pope has tried to crush it. Me? I am Irish bred and born. I may work for the Catholic God, and I love Him more than I can say, but my blood is the same as yours. Irish. So I am telling you this now, and I want you to follow my directions. There is a place not far from here, out in the woods to the north. I want you to go there—this is a map to help you find it. There are people there who can help you. You have much in your future, child, and it does not lie in Dublin-town."

Maeve could only stare wide-eyed at the priest as he told her all this.

"Now, go," he finished. "And Maevelyn, don’t ever be afraid." He blessed her once before shooing her out of the church. "There is nothing for you to be afraid of. Nothing."

"Never be afraid," Maeve muttered softly, gazing at the rocky, empty countryside. After living the last fourteen years of her life within the comforting solidity of tall stone and wooden walls, the surrounding area seemed dreadfully barren and devoid of life. And, more importantly to her shadow-bred senses, there was no place upon the green fields for her to hide. "Never be afraid. Yeah, right."

But, she figured as she hesitated at the gates of the city, what did she have to lose by following the priest’s instructions? She knew full well that she couldn’t remain a petty thief forever, and the time was drawing near when her disguise as a boy would be uncovered. The fate of girls on the streets of Dublin-town was not one she envied: quite often the only jobs they could procure were at brothels, or at the very best serving in a tavern during the day and keeping the master’s bed warm at night. Maeve shuddered as she stood in the shadow of the wall surrounding the city of Dublin. No, the life of a brothel-whore was not for her.

Hesitantly, the redheaded girl stepped out of the shadows and into the soft midmorning light. It almost seemed to kiss her dirty, bruised skin as she blinked in its brilliance. The breeze, gentle and sweetly-scented with heather and gorse, drew her scrawny, grubby frame out into the sunlight, urging her on. Maeve set a bare foot on the well-worn dirt road, aware of the silken feel of sun-warmed dust under her feet instead of rough, cold cobblestones. A hesitant smile, something rarely seen on her young face, flitted across her features. It felt strange to smile, but, as she thought about it, she decided that the feeling was not at all unpleasant. She tried again, the childish grin widening as she took another step upon the silken road.

A lark, herald of the morning, swept down upon her and gave its sweet, piercing cry. It banked sharply and twirled upward again, wings beating the air furiously. Another bird trilled nearby, and Maeve did something she couldn’t remember ever doing before in her life. She giggled.

It was purely reactionary; she hadn’t been consciously aware of what she was doing until that strange, foreign sound escaped her lips. She froze for a moment in guilt, casting her eyes about in case someone had heard. But the few travelers about this day paid no attention to the dirty, underfed child on the side of the road. With a start, Maeve realized why. For the first time in her life, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Her stepfather had always found fault with her, even when… She shuddered, refusing to think about it. She’d closed off that part of her memory long ago, out of survival. It simply hurt too much to remember. And after her stepfather had come the magistrate and the constabulary, commonly called the Bones. Yet despite knowing it was against the law and despite the awful way it made her feel, she’d had to steal to eat and nothing could erase that fact.

A glorious thought hit her then, something that filled her with glee. She was done with that life forever! She didn’t have to steal anymore! As soon as she got where she was going, wherever that was, she’d be able to bury the memories of her life on the streets as surely as she buried the memories of her stepfather’s heavy hand five years earlier…

The thought filled her with so much excitement that she hugged herself out of pure glee. Had she known how, she would have shouted for joy or ran with excitement. But some of her earliest memories were of rough handling by her stepfather for so much as whimpering, and his attentions had left their mark—both physically and emotionally—on the redheaded girl, and she did not shout. Running was also a foreign concept to her, to a child so used to creeping through refuse and slinking in the shadows of dark alleyways that to walk boldly down the center of a street filled her with nervous fear.

Yet even with that uncertainty lingering in her gutter-fed bones, Maeve took a deep breath and another step, quicker this time. She gazed up at the wide expanse of blue sky above her—she’d never seen so much sky! In the city the houses crowded close together, as if trying to shoulder their way into a better position. Since no one wanted to live outside the fortified wall keeping out invaders, there’d been nowhere to expand except for up. And so up the city went, three and four stories in some places, with the rooftops crowding each other and throwing long black shadows across even the widest streets. But here, outside the protective wall, the sky rose, clear and blue and almost domed, with fluffy white clouds skittering across its sweet blueness. Maeve swore she’d never seen a more gorgeous color, not even the bright silks and satins worn by some of the richest nobility. Nothing, she decided, could be so beautifully blue.

As she stared, openmouthed, at the sky, Maeve forgot about her footing and tripped rather suddenly over a pothole in the road. She stumbled forward, throwing her arms wide for balance, and the wind whipped by her as she half-ran to keep her balance. She stopped for a moment, nursing her stubbed toe, her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced around. More peddlers and travelers were beginning to choke the road, but it was still reasonably clear before her. She jogged forward experimentally for a few steps before breaking into a faltering run. The air hit her cheeks in cool waves as she ran, and she sucked it in delightedly. Another hesitant giggle escaped her lips, her feet finding a rhythm and slapping the hard-packed, smooth road with regular meter. As her breath began to catch in her throat, she felt a giddy excitement build up inside her. A lone tree flashed by on her left, and she didn’t even stop to crouch underneath in its safe shadows. She passed it by, her face turned toward the spot where the road disappeared into the horizon. The giddy feeling built and built, and she couldn’t help it. She shouted, just once, a wordless exultation of joy, before increasing her speed even more. Travelers headed toward Dublin-town who saw her passing just shrugged and exchanged small, tolerant smiles. Maeve didn’t care. All she felt was the road and the wind, and something, something farther on, something safe and comforting calling her home.

* * *

“Maeve? Maeve!”

Maeve blinked, and opened her eyes fully. She was still sitting on the edge of her bed, but some time must have passed. It was full night outside, and the lamps had been lit. Sinbad and Cait were awake, and Sinbad had been calling to her. Cait was watching them intently. Her cheeks were still fiery red. Maeve put a hand out and placed the back of her fingers on Caitrionna’s cheek and forehead. She felt warm from sleep, but not feverish.

“What were you doing?”

“Nothing,” Maeve said. She stretched, working some of the stiffness out of her joints. “Have a good sleep?”

“You agreed that you wouldn’t let me sleep!”

“I lied.” Maeve glanced back at her daughter, who was watching them avidly. “You rest, now,” she said, settling her back in the blankets and tucking them in securely. “Your da-dein and I are going to go see if we can’t get you something to eat. Are you hungry?”

“Wanna go, too.”

“Not this time.” Maeve leaned over her, and kissed her forehead. “When you’re well enough to sleep in your own cabin you can go running around again. Not before.”

“Wanna go!” Her pink lower lip trembled.

Maeve could feel Sinbad about to give in, so she spoke before he could. “When you’re all better, you can go. Sleep now, _dealan-dé_. Sleep.”

Caitrionna sighed, obviously unhappy, but she was not a disobedient child and she remained in the big bed. Maeve gave Sinbad a significant look and left the cabin. He followed, and she made sure to shut the door behind them.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she said.

“Do what? You’re the one who lied to me!” Sinbad glared at her. “I told you not to let me fall asleep. Is that really such a difficult order to obey?”

Maeve squelched the rising flare of her temper, refusing to let him make her angry over such a little thing. She had gotten better at maintaining her temper over the years they had spent together, though sometimes it was hard and sometimes she didn’t manage to hang onto it, especially when he was being particularly hard-headed about something. “You obviously needed to sleep, or you wouldn’t have done it,” she said. “So I let you. End of story. And since we’re being picky here, I’ve told you and told you not to argue in front of her. And don’t try to overrule me when I say something.”

“What’s the harm in letting her up for a while?”

“Nothing,” Maeve said. “But I wanted to talk to you.” She poked him in the chest. “Somewhere where little ears weren’t listening.”

“You could have told me that.”

“Out loud?” Maeve shot him a disparaging look. “Lot of good that would do. Or did you mean telepathically? You can’t read minds, Sinbad, and she can. Or will, when she gets older.”

He made a face. “What am I to do with _two_ sorceresses on board? You’ll be the death of us yet.”

“Not two sorceresses—a sorceress and a sorceress-in-training.”

He groaned and buried his head in his hands. “I just hope to Allah that she has better aim than you.”

* * *

Rumina paced the length of her cavelike chambers, cursing under her breath. The rock walls, brown and sandy, rose above her and met in an arc fifty feet above her head. She didn’t pay them any heed, focusing, instead, on her tumultuous thoughts.

Her—here was that awful word again—her sister had escaped her clutches yet again, and somehow she was being hidden from sight. Master Dim-Dim or Cairpra probably had a hand in it somewhere. She was not strong enough to take them on, particularly if there was a chance that they might be working together, so there was nothing she could do but bide her time. Bryn was proving slipperier than she had figured, even without her memory. And the memory spell wouldn’t last forever. Their father had cobbled it together quickly, needing it only to be temporary, assuming that she would either be killed or reunited with the family before it wore off. But she had somehow—whether through fate or Dim-Dim’s interference—been intercepted by Sinbad and his crew before they could finish the plan. Now it was too late. She was thoroughly ruined now, contaminated by Sinbad and his crew. The plan had backfired.

Now she would have to be killed. Pity, Rumina thought. It would have been nice to have someone else to share the burden of her father’s commands.

A sudden commotion at one end of the cave made the dark sorceress look up in irritation. Two servants rushed into her presence, bowing low and trying to run at the same time. “Mistress!” one cried. “Mistress, he says he wants to see you, and he won’t wait!”

“Who, idiot?” she demanded. Who, she thought, could possibly have known to look for her here?

“The demon, mistress,” the second servant said. They stumbled to a halt several paces from Rumina and sank to their knees in prostrate poses.

“I know many demons,” she said.

“Not _a_ demon,” said a new voice, and red smoke poured through the entrance to the cavern. “ _The_ demon.”

“Scratch,” she said, a small smile on her face. The servants backed slowly out a different entrance, quaking with fear.

The goat-like demon materialized, lounging at ease on one of Rumina’s blood-red chairs. “The one and only.”

“Tell me,” she said, pacing toward him, “are they still blaming you for all the evil done by man, in the west?”

“Not just the far west anymore, child,” he responded. “My influence is spreading.” He smiled at her, a mocking smile. “Yours, however, I see, has shrunk.”

“I was cursed,” Rumina said shortly.

“Do tell.”

“That peasant witch came back. Somehow she found Dim-Dim—or was found by him—and finished her training. She couldn’t kill me, but she trapped me here.”

“A comfortable sort of prison.” Scratch looked around at the red and black furnishings, amply cushioned, that were scattered around the firelit cave.

“That was my doing, not hers.” Rumina held a hand up and conjured a small ball of blue fire. “I am not powerless—but I haven’t enough power to destroy them. She mocks my attempts, now. I may harry, but not seriously hamper them.”

“Pity.”

Rumina stamped her foot. “Do not mock me, demon! You would still be trapped yourself, chained to your throne for all eternity with control over only the element of fire, had my father and I not loosed you.”

“And for that boon I am now come to give you repayment,” Scratch said. “Have you any idea what has befallen the crew of the Nomad since last you beheld them, that fateful day you were imprisoned?”

“I know they live,” she said, “and I know my traitorous sister is no longer with them. She is alive—but very distant.”

“Yes,” Scratch said, “she is with Dim-Dim and Dermott, receiving training and biding her time. They will shelter her, when you strike.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“I will do better than that,” Scratch said, and he waved a blunt-knuckled hand in the air. Red mist swirled into an image—the image of a little ship against a cerulean horizon. “I will show you.”

The image blurred and shifted, and turned dark. Rumina stepped closer, and as the picture steadied she beheld a wide bed. On it, in quiet repose, lay Maeve. Her long hair was spread out, vibrant against the white pillows and sheets. In her arms she held a small child with equally bright hair. The little girl sighed and moved slightly, clasping a handful of Maeve’s baggy white sleeve in her sleep.

“What sorcery is this?” Rumina murmured.

“Watch,” Scratch said. The door opened—Rumina could see a splash of light against the wooden floorboards. It closed again, and the unmistakable figure of Sinbad strode into view. He sat on the side of the bed and reached out a hand, running his fingers possessively through Maeve’s hair.

“Oh, no,” Rumina whispered, her voice dark and deadly. “She didn’t.”

“You foresaw none of this, with all of your machinations?” Scratch said. He laughed. “How positively delightful.”

“This was _not_ supposed to happen!” She looked up. “Fix it.”

“My dear, that is the very reason I came.” He sat forward. “Now. Unfortunately, I can’t just kill them outright. I have very specific rules by which I must play.”

“What, then?”

“A deal,” he said, “a deal they won’t be able to refuse—and a game they won’t be able to win.”

Rumina cocked her head to the side, exposing a length of very white throat. Her veins showed, so blue they were nearly black. “I’m listening.”

“Start looking,” he said, and pointed at the conjured image. “The little red-headed brat is the key to their undoing. The ultimate weak spot. To defeat the parents, we must first hold the child.”

“Kidnapping is so…barbaric.”

“Oh, not kidnapping. I was thinking of something much more insidious. And there’s a game, of course. Just to keep things sporting.”

“To hell with sporting—I want that wench’s throat to tear out!”

“All in good time, my dear. All in good time.”

* * *

The road was long, but Maeve didn’t mind. It was a ribbon of soft silk beneath her bare callused feet, and she loved running along its satin lengths. At night she slept in the long, cool grass on the side of the road, and during the day she simply ran. She didn’t know where she was going, or even why, but there was something leading her, something pulling her, far away from the filth and poverty of the streets of Dublin-town. It was clean and accepting, and it wanted her. For some reason, whatever-it-was wanted her, and only her. Maeve had never been wanted before, and it was a foreign feeling to her…though it was one she liked.

She was used to living on next to nothing, and traveling on the road was no hardship. She found fruit along the way, and quite often she stopped at farmhouses and traded an honest day’s work for a hot dinner and a night’s lodgings. It never once occurred to her to steal what she could obtain through a few hours of working. Her whole perception had changed.

Sometimes the farmwives felt sorry for her. She saw it in their eyes: blue or green or brown filled with pity. They never asked her to stay, though. Perhaps there was something of the dirt of Dublin still about her, for they did not want her around more than what she asked for. They provided for her immediate needs, but nothing more. No one wanted an unknown girl, small as she was for her age, and no one cared to know she was alive. Yet the women pitied her. She didn’t know at the time, but it was the old, tired quality in her eyes that they pitied. They saw only a child far too grown up for her age, forced to face far too many challenges. But as the days ran together in a kind of dreamy haze, that strange adulthood in Maeve’s child-eyes began to peel away, showing the youth beneath. She was growing younger as the blessed silken road unwound before her, showing her mysteries heretofore unknown. She saw the birds in the field, the farmers at work, the housewives beating the laundry and chopping the kindling. She saw a different picture of life than that of the city. But she was not part of it.

Maeve would have despaired at this not-belonging, had she been used to belonging somewhere. And she would have cried, heartbroken, that none of the farmwives wanted her, but for the little voice inside her soul that kept her moving along the road. It told her that she was not unwanted, and that she was more precious than she could ever imagine. It told her that this domestic life of chores and babies was not for her, and that she was destined for something else. It consoled her when she felt low, and lifted her spirits to soar with the larks and robins. And then one day her road ended. That is not to say the path itself did—indeed, it stretched on, still, in its windy, meandering way, but the pull to continue vanished completely.

Maeve found herself in a little village, not much more than a small hamlet. The houses were of whitewashed stone with thatched roofs—some of which were more skyclad than thatched—and very small. Maeve stared curiously at the peasants bustling about their day. It was interesting to watch these people, always hurrying everywhere. There was a pleasant drawl to their accents, though, which was much different from the clipped, short syllables in Dublin speech.

She entered the town, brown eyes wide as she took it all in. The urge, the feeling that she was going somewhere, had vanished completely, leaving an empty spot in the pit of her stomach. It twisted rather painfully, reminding her that she had not eaten that morning, and it was now nearing midafternoon.

Maeve glanced around, trying to judge which of the women would be most likely to give her a small job and a piece of bread as payment. She saw one likely looking lady hurrying across the street, a package under one arm and a little boy under the other. She faltered in the middle of the road, her bundle teetering precariously, and Maeve saw her chance. She darted over and steadied the package for the woman, allowing her to regain her balance and composure.

"Lady bless you, child," the stranger said automatically. She adjusted her grip on the dirty boy and eyed Maeve curiously. She was short and plump, with a softly rounded chin and a lower lip that had a pleasing tendency to pout the tiniest bit. "Well! In Brigid’s name, I don’t know you."

"No’m," Maeve said softly, dropping her eyes in the semblance of a courtesy. "I just came in."

"Ah," the mother replied. "We gets some as you ever now’n then. They’ll be wantin’ ye at th’ Haven sure as no’."

"Haven?" Maeve asked politely. The little boy grinned up at her. He had a runny nose, and his tunic was grimy, Maeve noted disinterestedly. She did not particularly like young children.

"Yeah, just up the hill aways," the woman said, pointing. "Go on up there, an’ they’ll fix ye up right nice." She gave Maeve a kindly shove with her shoulder, urging her toward the green hillside. "Once ye get ‘round th’ bend, ye’ll see it. Go on now, off wi’ ye." Maeve went.

She didn’t know what she was expecting at the woman’s talk about a Haven, but what she saw definitely wasn’t it. It was a tall, stately stone structure, at least three stories, and the stone had been left natural. Maeve knew that whitewashing something that massive would be a lost cause, for the gentlest spring rain would send streaks down its sides and force whoever was in charge of upkeep to start all over again. The roof was arched and met at a point, so that the third story would be triangular and larger in the middle than on the sides. A heavy door of wood—possibly even oak—sat across the doorway. It was open.

Maeve stepped hesitantly up to the open door. This place was almost a castle and almost a fortress, but a bit too small to be either. It looked like it might house perhaps forty people comfortably, without anyone getting underfoot. Briefly, Maeve wondered what kind of place this was.

"Hello?" Maeve peeped her head in at the sound of the voice. A woman stood just inside the oaken doorway, in a small stony courtyard surrounded by high stone walls, and it was she who had spoken. She was taller than the woman in the village—taller than Maeve—and her hair was a rich dark brown. Her eyes smiled, twinkling Irish green. There was something calming in those eyes, something that put Maeve instantly at ease.

"Och, I’m glad to see I wasn’t imagining things. I thought there was someone at the door!" She smiled, her whole face lighting when she saw Maeve. One callused hand reached out, as if drawing the young girl into the courtyard. Her face was not pretty, but it was strong and confident, with a broad forehead and wide, intelligent eyes. "Come, child, I think we’ve been expecting you."

"Expecting me?" Maeve didn’t sound so sure as she crept into the courtyard. "I didn’t myself know I was coming until I got here."

"That’s how we know we were expecting you." The woman smiled again. She was dressed in fine clothing.

“I don’t understand.”

The woman held out her hand again, obviously expecting Maeve to take it. “In time, you will. Shall we get you settled?”

Maeve didn’t understand what was going on, but she was tired and hungry and the day was fast slipping toward night. She had had to rely on her instincts all her life, and they were now telling her things she seldom felt—that she was safe, that here were people who would protect her—maybe even care for her. Wasn’t this the entire reason she had left Dublin-town? To come here? She reached out a dirty hand, which was quickly enveloped in the long fingers of the tall lady. “Come,” the woman said. “Welcome to the Haven.”

Dearbháil watched her new ward carefully as they stepped inside the cool stone walls of the main building. She was well-trained in the assessment of these children, the children who came to her reeking of fear, unsure about their place in the world. They came from all walks of life—runaways, strays, and the unwanted—and they all had different stories to tell. The only thing that remained the same, no matter the child, was the sense that this was their last hope. They knew there was nowhere else for them to go. They were frightened, and desperate.

At least, the smart ones were.

She watched the new arrival now with scrutinizing care, though she was careful to appear calm and friendly. She did not want the child to know, quite yet, what she was looking for.

She could see from the girl’s movements that she was not used to walking freely or moving with any sort of confidence. She was used to slinking, to creeping, to walking with little starts and stops, darting from shadow to shadow. Her clothes showed that she had come from Dublin, the only large city, by their cut. Farmers and fishermen wore quite different clothing. The state of her clothes and the fact that she arrived here with nothing—not even a handkerchief tied around a crust of bread—showed that she was poor and quite probably had been so her entire life. Her filthy appearance showed that she was not accustomed to daily hygiene. Even under the dirt of days on the road, though, Dearbháil could see the vague shapes of bruises and scars on her skin. They spoke of abuse, probably long-standing, and they made Dearbháil worried. Sometimes these children were hurt so badly that their spirits could not be healed. Some were never able to accept the facts of life here in the Haven, never able to learn to trust. Without trust, there was little point in attempting to learn the Old Ways. The trust had to be developed first.

But the new arrival was looking around her with keen interest as they entered a large receiving area with doors lining its sides. A stone staircase rose to a second floor filled with light that spilled down the steps. Wooden furniture covered with red and green pillows looked sturdy and inviting.

“My name is Maeve,” the girl supplied without prompting. Also a good sign.

“And I am Dearbháil, mistress of the Haven and mentor to all who bide here,” Dearbháil said. “I can see that you prefer honesty, and so I will be blunt with you. Our lives here are simple, and sometimes hard. We are not rich people. We do our own cooking and cleaning, and we must glean from the earth what She provides in order to survive. But we live a good life, I believe, for we are never hungry or cold so long as we all work together and complete our tasks willingly. We serve no lord or master, only the merciful gods. If you agree to stay with us, you will learn how to live off the land without damaging it, and you will learn the Old Ways. You wouldn’t have found your way here if you had no knack for them, so do not fear failure. You will also learn other necessary skills—ciphering and scribery, numbers. How to think properly, and make wise decisions.”

“It’s all so…so much.” Maeve said weakly.

“Overwhelming. That is the word you want.” Dearbháil eyed her. “We will start slow. You can learn at your own pace. You will have a family here that will never abandon you, child. What do you say?”

Maeve swallowed. The stone walls were thick and snug. The smell of hearty cooking drifted to her from somewhere deeper in the building. She could smell warm bread, and meat and potatoes. Her stomach reminded her that it had been a long time since she had last eaten. Here she could be warm and dry, fed and protected, if all Dearbháil said was true. She wasn’t sure she was up to the task of learning what these people seemed to want to teach her, but she thought she was willing to try her best if they really would take care of her. She was tired of taking care of herself. She looked down at herself, at her filthy rags and bruised, broken skin. She wasn’t sure she had been doing the best job on her own. Maybe she needed some help, after all.

She took a deep breath just as another waft of savory cooking smells came down the hall. She was a child still, and questions of trust took a backseat to a promise of a good, hot meal—the first one she had had in a long time. Longer than she could clearly remember.

“I do not know how strong I am,” she said, “or how smart. But…I would like to try, I think,” she said finally.

Dearbháil smiled. “That is all we can ever ask of anyone, Maeve. Welcome home, child.”

* * *

Maeve woke all at once, knowing something was not right. In her arms, Cait slept on. It was late—night was on the wane and the starry sky visible through the porthole was faintly green with approaching dawn. Someone—probably Sinbad—had left a lamp burning, and in its dim light, swaying gently with the movement of the ship, Maeve’s quick eyes scanned the cabin. It appeared to be empty, but she knew better. Something that saw more than they eyes could understand felt that she was not alone with her daughter.

“Show yourself,” she hissed, and with a subtle movement she tossed the blankets over Cait’s face, hoping the presence would not notice the sleeping child.

“It’s no use, peasant,” said a dark velvet voice Maeve had not heard in several years. Rumina stepped out of a shadowy corner that Maeve could have sworn was empty a moment ago.

“I don’t know how you escaped,” Maeve said, “but I’m not afraid of you.” She smiled. “I know more than you do—now.”

“I doubt it, but I’ll have you know that I am not working alone this time.” Rumina sneered. “No one can stand against the power of a true demon.”

“We have. Countless times.”

“Well, this is a new game,” Rumina said, “and the stakes are higher. By the way, it’s no use trying to hide that new little peasant. I already know all about her.”

Maeve had been more irritated than frightened up until this point, but the red light glinting in Rumina’s eyes when she mentioned Cait terrified her. She hadn’t really ever thought much about the dark sorceress’s probable reaction to Sinbad’s daughter, mostly because she was confident in her ability to handle Rumina if she ever escaped from her rocky prison. She hadn’t ever considered the possibility that Rumina would agree to team up with someone more powerful, and she was afraid she knew who that someone was. This talk of games seemed somehow familiar. Maeve left one hand free with which to counter any attack that might be forthcoming, but gathered Caitrionna to her side with the other arm.

“Scratch,” she whispered.

“Oh, yes, peasant witch,” Rumina said, “and he has kindly permitted me to explain the rules of the game to you.”

Maeve didn’t know what she could possibly do to stop this. Attacking Rumina was pointless if the power behind the game came from Scratch, and capturing Rumina would do nothing. Scratch didn’t care one whit about her life; she was merely a conduit he was exploiting for his own uses. She did the one thing she could think of to do.

“Sinbad!” Maeve yelled.

“That’s right,” Rumina said, “call your sailor. He’ll want to hear this, too.”

Sinbad burst into the room and stopped short, taking in the scene before him. “Rumina!”

“Yes, we’ve had that part already,” she said. “Now, here are the rules of the game. No cheating.” She smiled. “My beautiful sailor. We could have been great together, you know. You could have ruled by my side.”

“Never.”

“The little brat’s life is forfeit, either way,” she said, shrugging. “Scratch prefers it this way, however. The game—to give you a sporting chance, he says.” She held up a tiny vial made of deep red glass and dropped it on the floor. It shattered, and a small plume of red smoke billowed up. It hovered in the air for a long moment before drifting slowly toward the bed.

“Maeve, do something!” Sinbad yelped.

She didn’t need the command. Both hands came up in a quick gesture of repudiation, and she cried a word in a language Sinbad could not place. Blue light glimmered in the air between Rumina and Maeve, but it did nothing to the evil smoke, which drifted through the shield easily and settled over Caitrionna’s face. She breathed, and it entered her lungs.

“No!” Sinbad cried, and he lunged toward his daughter but it was too late and he knew, with a sinking heart that there was nothing he could have done, anyway. Maeve yelled another string of unintelligible words, but it was an instant too late and with all the power of Scratch behind the spell it wouldn’t have done any good. Cait exhaled, and the red smoke did not reappear. The strong, dark smell of evil magic hovered close around her. She twitched once, then stilled. Maeve froze, ears straining for the faint sound of her daughter’s heartbeat. It was there, faint and slow. After five agonizing seconds, Cait took another breath.

“She is not dead, sailor—yet. This is the game. You have one week to find a cure and wake her. If you do, Scratch will forfeit his claim on her life. If you do not, her soul belongs to the demon to do with as he pleases.”

“That is no game, Rumina.” Sinbad’s voice was dark as he advanced on the sorceress.

“But it is, my beautiful sailor,” she said. “And even if you lose—which you must, of course—there is still one more choice left to you.”

“And what is that?”

“Scratch may be willing to deal, depending on his whim. Her soul…for yours.”

“Sinbad, no!” Maeve cried.

“Easy, Maeve,” he said, his eyes still locked on Rumina. “We have a week, and though Scratch might not think much of our chances, I will not sleep until we have broken this spell.” He drew his sword. “As for his emissary—I think it’s best that you go now, Rumina. Before you end up like your father.”

She laughed and raised a hand. Dark smoke closed in around her, and she began to disappear. “Remember, sailor. One week, and then you deal.”

* * *

The sky was light, though rain splattered down upon the grass. It was the kind of rain that poured for ten minutes, then gave the sun just enough time to warm the hearts of the harsh inhabitants before filling the air with stinging wetness again.

Maeve, cowled in her heavy cloak, stared intently out into the rain. There was no use in venturing any further than the public room of the poor village, since the person she sought would not show himself until nightfall.

"Be ye wantin’ anathin’, miss?" the barkeep asked, watching her strange behavior. "Ye jus’ missed th’ stage t’ Limerick. Another t’ Dublin’ll be ‘round shortly, I’d be thinkin’."

"Nay, good sir," the redhead replied from underneath the brown cloak. "I be just fine." Her tone of voice forbade any arguments or more prying.

The keep shrugged and returned to his counter. The people of Eire were a strange lot, and generally kept themselves to themselves. He knew better than to pry.

Night clamped down on the rocky island with sudden strength, as if it, too, were eager for the meeting ahead. There was no lingering shade of twilight after the last rays of bright afternoon sunshine burst through the drizzly cloud cover for an instant before vanishing. Rain still splattered occasionally upon the muddy paths as Maeve slipped out into the wet night, but she didn’t much care. A little rain would not hurt her, whereas wasting time might very well cost her daughter her life.

She slipped into the wild country quickly, as if she were one of the fey creatures who dance there on fair nights. Soon she was lost to the town, lost to the moon, lost to everything but her own heartbeat. She felt her pulse thrumming, fast and steady, in her temples. The night was filled with electricity, and a strange kind of tense excitement and energy. A late robin started from its nest and flew right in front of Maeve’s path. In its wake, she fancied she could see the scene aboard the Nomad at that very moment. The air seemed full of her daughter’s soft, erratic heartbeat, and Sinbad’s strong steady one beside her. She couldn’t see the people, but their heartbeats took on a shape and form of their own. The imagined room almost swam, awash with dim crimson and gold from the shaded lantern. Maeve sighed.

A small herd of wild ponies rumbled by close to Maeve’s path. She blinked, the momentary vision dissolving, and stared. The moon came out. One of the herd had detached himself and now stood on a little outcropping of stone, his shaggy head regarding the cloaked woman wandering the burren all alone. He was grey, mostly, with gunmetal knees and a filthy yellow tail. Maeve stared at him, not moving, and the pony stared back.

* * *

"Well haven’t you a lot of pride!" Maeve scoffed, stroking the animal’s soft nose. He was large for the ponies of that area, and as sound as a human could wish. It was warm out, a summery day in the early part of June, and all the horses—domestic and feral alike—wore their sleek summer coats like fine silken robes. This particular beast was a silvery grey, with darker, almost blue hairs covering his knees, ears, and part of his muzzle. The stallion-pony tossed his mane proudly and gave a delicate little whicker.

"You’re nervy for a wild one," Maeve laughed.

She’d grown since coming to the Haven three years ago, and her skinny child’s frame had filled out into that of a woman. She smiled, something she did oftener than not, and put out a long-fingered hand.

The horse put his head against her fingers, the velvety muzzle soft and warm. Maeve’s smile widened, and she tickled the coarse whiskers under his chin. He snorted, his horse breath hot against her palm, and lipped gently at her fingers. It never occurred to Maeve to be frightened, though she knew that wild horses had a penchant for biting.

"Maeve!"

The voice of one of the other novitiates at the temple, a dark Irish girl with a small pixie face, broke the quiet moment. The horse backed away, giving a little snort almost as if frustrated with the interruption. He regarded Maeve for a long moment with a big dark eye, turned, reared once, and was gone between one breath and the next.

"Oh, so your new suitor doesn’t want anyone else to see him?" Anaí laughed as she came up behind the tall redhead, resting one arm casually over Maeve’s. "He’s king of the wild ones," she continued, motioning to the disappearing horse. "Or, if not, he should be." Maeve wasn’t listening. She stared at the place where the horse had vanished, her eyes distant and her face tranquil and solemn.

"Maeve? Why so silent?" Anaí punched her shoulder lightly.

The taller girl shook her head as if shaking off a dream and turned to her friend.

"Och, you take me too seriously," she said, turning finally to look at the dark-haired Anaí. "Come, let’s go inside. It’s almost time for class."

They turned and went arm in arm up the hill to the Haven, its grey bulk silhouetted against the sun. Behind them the grey stallion watched, his nostrils quivering slightly as his eyes followed the two girls.

* * *

"You came," Maeve whispered, her voice caught between awe and futile tears as she stared at the shaggy pony in the splattering rain. "By Brigid’s fire, you came."

* * *

It was May, and sweet with flowers even in the gloaming dusk. Maeve stood at the stone windowsill, staring out at the gathering twilight. She ignored the excited twittering of the girls in the chamber behind her, flinching slightly at a sudden high-pitched burst of giggles. She never was one for that kind of behavior. Even now, after living among these people for four years, she still hadn’t picked up much of their mannerisms. She still didn’t like to talk much, or contribute to the conversations that were punctuated by much giggling and, to her mind, no actual thinking. She couldn’t understand the attraction it had for her fellow female novitiates.

Soft grey evening blew in the window, and Maeve sighed as she breathed it in. The air was clean and sweet in the evening as it was at no other time. Dawn wasn’t soft like this—spring dawn, even as late as May, was chilly. But evening still held the warmth of day, punctuated by the soft song of late birds. The lark had long since hushed its raucous cry, a piercing sound associated with bright yellow light and misty mornings, and now the air was filled with the evening song of the night birds and the deep, hoarse call of the crow.

"Maeve, aren’t you even the slightest bit excited?" Nora, a small, pale redhead asked. "Today is Beltane! And you’re of age this year. Don’t you want to go into the village and take part in the holiday?" A smattering of nervous, excited giggles erupted inside the large dormitory chamber again, along with the flittering of the young girls flying from bunk to bunk.

The tall redhead turned from the stone windowsill, dark eyes landing on her younger schoolmate and remaining. Their brown, liquid depths blinked once.

"And come home bulging with child?" she asked, her face impassive but her tone scornful. She gave an undignified snort. "Not bloody likely."

"Don’t swear like a Breton, dear, it’s vulgar," another girl observed from across the chamber.

"She’s more interested in horses than humans," dark Anaí interjected. "She’ll probably sneak out to go visit the grey king on the hill."

"He’s probably a changeling fairy," a blond girl scoffed. "Careful, Maevelyn, or your king may draw you into the Shadowland."

Maeve ignored this and turned back to the window, staring out into the dusk. "Better that than a man," she whispered into the night. In truth she was curious—more than she would ever admit—about how it felt to lie with a man. But the urge to satisfy her curiosity was not the only thing she felt, nor was it the strongest. She knew well what happened when men and women lay together, and that oftentimes it led to a child. She did not want a child—ever. She was on her own, and having a baby would upset the balance of her life. So would having a man. She didn’t want either, ever. "Better that than a man," she repeated, as if affirming it to herself.

A grey shadow detached itself from the building and, with a soft whicker, hurtled into the darkness.

* * *

A few hours later Maeve slipped outside the heavy oaken door of the courtyard and into the wilderness. The Haven bordered a bit of forest—small, but little traveled. It was adequate coverage for one young woman who merely wanted seclusion and a place to think, and it was to this place that Maeve stole, slipping into the relative sanctuary of the trees. No one would follow her—not this night. Not on Beltane. She wanted to be alone. Most of the women and older girls were at the village bonfire, and the novices too young to participate in the holiday were awake in the dormitory, chattering and chirping excitedly about what they imagined was going on in the village below. Maeve didn’t want a part in either group—she knew very well what was going on in the village and she saw no need to gossip about which girls might return home with babes in their bellies.

"What’s the use?" Maeve grumbled out loud as she stumbled on a patch of loose shale and pushed farther into the deep heart of the forest. Something neighed.

"It’s all very well for you, horse," she said, pushing into a small clearing. The moon had risen by this time and doused the clearing with silver-blue light. The dew had not yet fallen, and the grass was dry. Maeve sat down with a thump. "You come into season, you find a stallion, you have a foal. It’s not so simple for human beings."

A soft, sudden rustling sounded from the east. Maeve watched, tense, as a shape ambled into the clearing. If it was a drunken reveler, she could handle him. She really didn’t want her solitary evening ruined, though. All she wanted was some peace and quiet in the forest.

As she watched, tense and searching, the grey pony stallion shouldered his way through the last of the bushes and regarded her with silver-lashed eyes.

"Oh!" Maeve grinned. The pony whuffled and stepped close to her, his breath gentle on her hair. "Hello, sweet. What are you doing here?" She reached up and scratched his silky forehead. "Surely you know it is Beltane. Where is your band of mares, little king? Shouldn’t you prefer their company this night?"

The pony gave a sudden snort, sounding more like human laughter than a horse snort, just as a bright moonbeam splashed upon his sleek silver frame.

Maeve ruffled his tangled mane, absently picking gorse brambles out of its grey lengths. "At the Haven they say you are a fairy," she remarked, her nimble fingers working away at a horrible snarl of bramble and hair and mud. "But you smell equine enough to me."

The beam of moonlight suddenly intensified to a brilliance so bright that Maeve could hardly look at it. A soft buzzing sound like the drone of a summer bumblebee filled her ears. She stared at the horse, openmouthed, as it rose up on its hind legs and turned into a man.

He was beautiful, Maeve noted, as she sat rooted to the ground in shock. He wore a loose cream-colored shirt of soft linen and dark pants of a coarser material. Briefly she wondered where his clothes went when he was a horse. His hair was silver, though not with age, and it reached in soft, straight wisps to the lower part of his ears. It was tipped in black, as if he had dipped the very ends in a pool of midnight sky devoid of stars. His skin was fair, like any Celt, with light freckles across the bridge of his straight nose. His lips were a light pink color she couldn’t ever remember seeing on a man before, and yet it fit him perfectly, almost like the soft pink of the stallion’s nose. His eyes were dark, as dark as a horse’s, with very little white sclera around the brown at all. He was well muscled, though graceful rather than bulky, and he moved with the liquid elegance of an animal.

Several minutes passed in silence so complete that Maeve heard it pressing upon her ears. She was not frightened by this apparition, for her people lived amongst the remnants of the Old Ones, and not a few stories of actual encounters were reported every year. He was a fairy, no doubt about that. There was no other reason for horses to go around turning into beautiful men—beautiful young men—without regard for people’s feelings. Fairies were notoriously unaware of the strange turnings of human minds, and rarely did they take the time to sort out what might and what might not frighten the frail beings they shared their land with.

The fairy man turned his head to the side, regarding Maeve with his big dark eyes. Only faint flickers of white shone around the irises. Maeve stared back at him, refusing to make the first move.

"Are you frightened of me?" he asked suddenly, in Gaelic. Well you are stupid, Maeve told herself. What language did you expect him to speak? His accent was thick and slow, rather than the quick snap of syllables Maeve had procured in Dublin-town. His words were even slower than the country speech she’d accustomed herself to, with a musical lilt and cadence that made them sound almost foreign though she’d been speaking the same language her entire life. It made her own speech sound guttural and slow-witted to her own ears, made her sound like she was merely a student in a language he had mastered eons ago.

Perhaps she was.

Maeve pushed those thoughts firmly aside and snorted derisively, much as he had as a horse but a few minutes before. "Why should I be afraid of you?" she asked.

His silver hair hung around his ears. He shook it out of his face and continued to watch her with a strange, burning curiosity. Neither pair of dark eyes blinked.

A hoot owl screeched off in the distance, breaking the impasse. The fairy man grinned, showing two rows of straight, even teeth and a single dimple in his right cheek.

"If you are not frightened, then what are you?" he asked, still unblinking.

"Rather upset, actually," Maeve snapped irritably, rising to her feet. "Why didn’t you tell me you were a fairy?" Her hands were on her hips, and she glared at him. He blinked, much as a young child would when faced with displeasure he is not quite sure he has earned.

"I didn’t think you’d like the fairy," he said simply, giving a small shrug, "because the fairy is a man." He reached out and brushed the tips of his long, slender fingers across her cheek. "I’ve heard you speak your mind about men enough. I thought you’d like the horse better." He cocked his head to the side calculatingly, his eyes never blinking or leaving her. "But today, as you have already pointed out, is Beltane." He stepped closer and Maeve felt her heart begin to pound nervously with his close proximity. "Aren’t you even a little curious about what it feels like to lie with a man?" Maeve’s silence betrayed her.

"Today is Beltane. No one will care. It’s natural, you are now of age, and I will not get you with child." He gave a small smile. "No fairy bairns for you…unless you want one."

"I don’t want _any_ babies, fairy or otherwise."

He raised an eyebrow. "You may change your mind about that someday." He blinked finally, and Maeve, without realizing it, mimicked the gesture. "Though not today."

"Not today," Maeve agreed, without moving toward him. "How did you know I was of age?" she demanded, trying to hold onto reason for a little while longer. The offer was tempting—he was offering her the chance to satisfy her curiosity without repercussions. No baby, and no man following her. Fairies did not stay with one person for very long—all he wanted, most likely, was a partner for this Beltane, and he would be gone in the morning. That suited Maeve just fine.

To her surprise, the fairy blushed slightly. "I’ve been watching you for a while, Maeve, and not just as a horse. I was watching you the day you appeared here, a dusty little waif running down the road. There was something…interesting about you. Something kept me watching you." His eyes met hers again, so deep, so dark, so full of immortal mysteries. "I know well that you are of age this Beltane."

Maeve frowned again. "Why me?" she asked, confusion coloring the two simple words. She thought of herself as she saw herself in the mirror—tall, muscular yet slim, with hair that didn’t know if it wanted to be red or gold, curly or straight. Her eyes were dark, like mud, she thought, not like the emerald and sapphire eyes most of the other novitiates had. And her family background was disgraceful—not knowing her father, and having a conniving mother who would rather keep an angry drunk around than provide for her daughter herself. Was this fairy simply interested in slumming it, Maeve wondered? But, no. Even fairies wore their hearts in their eyes to those who had trained to read the soul’s mirrors, and there was nothing in his eyes to suggest such a thing. So what was it?

He grinned softly and reached out with one finger, tracing the curl of a lock of her hair. "You honestly don’t see it, do you?" he asked, without mocking. "You are a desirable woman, Maeve. Many men in the village down there would seek your company this night, were you so inclined to join them."

"I don’t want their attention," Maeve replied, her eyes turning toward where the village lay, hidden by walls of trees. "Why do I have yours?"

"Because there is something about you I do not understand," he replied matter-of-factly. "And because you are beautiful, and tonight is Beltane. What is your decision, Maeve? What say you?" The fairy held out a hand.

After a long, silent pause in which Maeve was acutely aware of his breathing; the soft sound, his chest as it rose and fell beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, she took his hand. The fairy smiled, as did she.

"Tonight is Beltane," Maeve agreed.

The fairy led her into the woods by the hand, away from the bright expanse of moonlight. Maeve was thankful for this, since she did not care for the open feeling of the clearing. He stopped at the base of a large oak tree, its branches dark shadows above them.

"Come to me," he said softly, pulling on her hand. Then Maeve, without realizing just how she’d gotten there, was in his arms, and they surrounded her with warmth. He smelled of sweet woodbine and pungent heather, of open meadows and shadowed forests. Without truly thinking about what she was doing, Maeve buried her face in his neck and drew in a deep breath.

The fairy laughed. "What are you doing, _dealan-dé_?" he asked, his hands firm and gentle upon her waist.

"You smell nice," she said, her words muffled by his skin. He was warm, warmer than she’d thought, for it was said that fairies were often icy cold, but it felt nice to press her body against his. Slowly he drew his fingers up underneath her chin and raised her head to his. Brown eyes locked with brown and his mouth met hers in a soft, burning kiss.

Maeve had never felt the touch of a man’s lips before in quite this way. There was something humming within him, humming to the rhythm of the earth beneath their feet. Briefly her mind wondered, as her arms wrapped themselves around his neck and shoulders, if he would always hum like that or if it was merely the fact that tonight was Beltane. Then he deepened the kiss, and she forgot to think at all. A cascade of new sensations and new feelings surrounded her as the fairy nibbled gently at her neck, kissed her chin, settled his mouth against hers again. His hands, which had settled against her waist, traveled upward, his thumbs sliding over her ribcage before his hands covered her breasts. Maeve pulled her mouth away from his, in nervousness rather than discomfort, her eyes unsure.

"I’ve never…" she began, but the fairy hushed her with a soft kiss. He smiled.

"I know, _dealan-dé_ ," he said. "I won’t hurt you, I promise." He kissed her forehead. "There are benefits to your first Beltane being spent with a fairy."

He pressed his mouth to her throat, then, feeling the pulse of life within her body. "You are so warm," he whispered wonderingly, "so alive." Then her mouth locked with his again, and neither said anything more for quite a while.

* * *

The moon had set when Maeve turned lazily over within the possessive circle of the fairy’s arms and rested her damp hair against his sweaty chest. He smelled of green and growing things, even stronger now, with his sweat clinging to his pale skin. She wondered briefly what humans smelled like to the fey.

"You smell like the rich earth after a spring rain," he said, his voice rising from his chest and piping softly in her ear. "You smell of secrets, the secrets of the earth."

Maeve chuckled lightly, her body moving slightly against him. "So you read minds too?" she asked, yawning slightly. He had been true to his word—the pain the novitiates had whispered about, the pain of the first time, had not been felt. She had felt nothing but pleasure from this man—this fairy—and from his insistence she got the distinct impression he felt the same.

"Mm. Only when you shout them at me," he said, chuckling a little. Maeve shivered as a light breeze blew through the forest, rustling the oak leaves above her head and causing her sweaty skin to bead up in little goosebumps. The fairy noticed this, and frowned.

"Cold?" he asked. “Allow me." He reached out, toward the tree, and suddenly there was a large swath of heavy green velvet in his hand. He wrapped it around their entwined bodies as they lay cradled on the earth under the oak tree. "Better?"

"Yes," Maeve mumbled, growing sleepier. "Thank you."

"You are quite welcome, _dealan-dé_."

Maeve moved closer to him, finding that the hollow between his chest and shoulder made an excellent pillow. His arms wound firmly around her, a protective, possessive hold. Maeve could hear the beating of his heart, and it drummed in rhythm with the earth beneath them. She was falling asleep. Suddenly a thought crossed her mind, something that jolted her sleepy mind back into wakefulness. She sat up on an elbow, her red hair falling around her shoulders. "What is your name?" she asked, almost sheepishly. The fairy threw back his head and laughed.

Maeve shifted away from him, affronted by his behavior. "It’s not funny!" she protested, scowling at him. He reached out and slid his hand down her bare arm, rubbing the skin gently.

"Of course not," he said in a placating voice. He looked at her for a moment, no words being said. Then, "Do you know what it is when a fairy gives a human his name?"

Maeve shook her head.

The fairy reached out and pulled her to him again, settling her willing body in the curve of his side. "It is a declaration of trust, trust in the highest degree."

Maeve rolled over onto her back, stretching luxuriantly. "Why?" she asked.

"A fairy’s name can be used to bind him. To harm him." The fairy reached out and traced a line up Maeve’s bare ribcage, stopping at the base of her breasts. Maeve watched him, a vaguely sardonic look on her face.

"What possible harm could I bring you?" she asked matter-of-factly. "I know well what it is to depend on others to keep your secrets and save your life. I do not like the feeling—why should I put it upon you?"

"You could harm me," the fairy said. "More than you know, you could harm me."

"I will not."

He watched her, his eyes unreadable. "Do you know why my people seek out yours? Do you know why we lure you, sometimes, down into our world?" Maeve’s eyes watched his, the soft brown depths unreadable.

"It is not to cause harm, nor is it for our amusement." His hand traced down her back, playing with the graceful curve of her spine. Maeve made a soft noise in her throat, his touch making her shiver. "It is because we need you."

"Need us?" Maeve frowned; this was news to her. Before this moment, she had assumed the fey folk were self-reliant and needed nothing save their own magic to survive. Perhaps it was not true.

"Yes, _dealan-dé_. We need you to remain the way we are. There is warmth in you—a life we do not possess. It is this life, this warmth, we require. I have felt it from you, Maeve, basked in your warmth. It is…a heady feeling, almost akin to what your men are feeling down in the village, the affects of their wine. But this is much stronger."

"Is that why you came to me this night?" Maeve asked, slightly offended. If all he wanted was warmth, some strange life-force she gave out…

"Do not be angered, _dealan-dé_. You did not—do not—want undying love either. You wanted the touch of a man, and I wanted the touch of a human woman. What we did was mutually beneficial."

Maeve had to admit he had a point and, while she was no longer angry with him over the horse-secret, she had to admit that their actions had caused no love to well up in her heart either. He was little more than a stranger to her, though his body had entered hers. He was an attractive stranger, yes, but a stranger nonetheless. And though she knew this thought should bother her, should make her uncomfortable, she couldn’t dredge up the need to care. His body was warm and felt exquisite against hers, and the time they had spent together, learning each other’s bodies and reactions, was burned into her memory. The comfortable silence stretched between them for a long while. Maeve had thought he was asleep when he spoke again.

"Do you know what your name means?" he asked, his voice far-away even as it sounded next to her ear.

"The first Maeve was a queen," Maeve replied, tracing invisible patterns on his chest under the blanket of green velvet. There was no chest hair, simply smooth skin covering the hard muscle.

"Yes, but do you know what the name means?" he asked again.

"No," she said, shivering lightly as one of his hands absently stroked her hair.

"It means many things," he said, his voice no more than the whisper of a summer wind. "It is a flower that grows in the very northern reaches of this land. It also means ‘fragile.’"

"I do not believe I am fragile," Maeve said, smiling at that. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the beat of his heart.

"Really?" He sounded truly interested. "I know so little of human thoughts and feelings. To us, your kind are as fragile, as delicate as the flowers and insects are to you."

Maeve snuggled close to his shoulder, breathing in the strange, calming scent of his skin. "Is that why you keep calling me a butterfly?" she asked sleepily.

He chuckled. "Perhaps."

"What else does my name mean?"

The fairy stretched, settling her against his side more firmly, and tightened his arms around her. One hand came to rest just underneath her breasts, making Maeve suck in her breath slightly. He tipped her chin up, nipping at the exposed skin of her throat with infinite care. "Intoxicating one," he breathed against her skin, exhaling the words so that she shivered as his breath touched her skin. "And that one, I believe, you are."

Maeve chuckled a little, accepting him into her arms as her mouth sought his. "I’ve heard that fairies lie; now I know it for truth."

"No," he said, his teeth grating against the underside of her jaw. "Lies are for dancing nights, and promises of gold. The truth is for you."

With that he rolled over on top of her, and silenced any further remarks she might have made with a kiss.

* * *

"Colm," the fairy whispered softly to the sleeping figure in his arms, a figure half girl and half woman, with red-gold hair painted silver-purple by the blue moonlight and the shadows under the old oak tree. "My name is Colm, my treasure, and you are the one I have been searching for."

* * *

Maeve awoke in the middle of a wood, the chill of an Irish spring morning on the ground and in the trees. Even on this first day of May, it was still cold enough to raise goosebumps on her arms as she woke, blinking the last retreating haze of sleep from her smoky brown eyes. It was sunny already, the sky white—opaque, yet strangely clear, as if the sun were hiding the moon and stars behind swaths of the finest exotic silk, colorless as the moon herself. The forest smelled of the damp earth, of green, growing things, and underneath it all, the faint, pungent scent of wild heather.

Maeve’s clothes were folded neatly by her side, she noticed as she rolled over on her back and took a general, languid stock of her surroundings. She remembered, through a foggy, sleep-induced haze as wooly as new lambs, having thrown them haphazardly around the forest the night before. She frowned in confusion, a small line appearing on her brow for a moment. The boughs of the oak tree above her creaked gently as a breeze blew through the woodlands, sounding slightly smug. She glared at the tree as she started to sit up. A covering of soft leaves and grasses rustled as it fell away from her skin. The cool air hit her body, and she shivered. She was alone.

Slowly Maeve stood, feeling a lingering weakness in her legs, but no pain. The fairy had been right; she had felt no pain during any part of the previous night, nor did she feel any now, after her muscles had been given a chance to rest. She gave a small smile as she thought of the fairy. He wasn’t here now, and that was fine with her. She preferred waking up alone, and today it was especially nice to have this quiet time just after waking, time when she was quite solitary, time to reflect on what she had done the past night, and what had transpired, and how it made her feel.

Maeve pushed away the covering of leaves, and they whispered among themselves as they fell from her body and settled to the ground. She ignored their chucklings and reached for her folded clothes.

Something bright glinted, suddenly and brightly, from amid the rustling leaves. Maeve frowned and raised her left hand, something foreign and golden affixed to it. As the last of the leaves fell to the ground, a delicate gold ring appeared on the middle finger of her hand. It twinkled at her, its curious, delicate beauty catching her full attention as she paused to inspect the curious trinket attached to her slender finger. The band was thin, sparkling yellow gold, full of rich, full color, but that wasn’t the thing that caught her eye. The decoration was a tiny, perfect rose, every detail chipped painstakingly out of a single sparkling ruby, the faceted stone bright, blood red against the pale skin of her hand. On either side of the jeweled flower sat an equally exquisite rose-leaf, tooled from emeralds greener than the rolling hills of Maeve’s Eire. She stared long at the ring, remembering the passion of the night before, and wondering just what this all meant now.

* * *

“How do you conquer a demon, when it won’t show itself?” Sinbad paced around the table, unable to sit still. Maeve slumped in her chair, cradling her head in her hands. She had a massive headache and could barely keep her eyes open against the pounding in her temples. Her very bones ached, and she was about to deck Sinbad, well-meaning though his anger might be. It wasn’t his fault, she thought, that Cait now lay in their bed, still as death, with the sand in the hourglass falling away beneath her. She should have foreseen this eventuality, and protected her daughter better. What could Sinbad have done, knowing nothing of sorcery?

“Can Dim-Dim do nothing?” Doubar asked. “He fought Scratch once, and won.”

“He didn’t win, exactly, and I already tried to contact him. He says he knows nothing of this spell, and though he is willing to try, reaching him would take most of our time and he is not sure he would succeed. He would rather we tried something else, something more sure.”

“Maeve, couldn’t you—”

“I haven’t the power to defeat so strong a demon in single combat, which is what it would take to release the spell by human means.” Her voice was hoarse, and lines of worry and pain had etched themselves as if permanently between her delicately arched eyebrows.

“Sounds like we need a demon to fight on our side,” Doubar said.

“Or a bard to find some loophole in the rules,” Firouz put in, shaking his head.

“Would you all try thinking?” Sinbad snapped. “Where are we going to find a good demon to fight for us? Come on.”

Maeve froze. A good demon…impossible. But an indifferent one…perhaps one who could find a loophole, as Firouz mentioned….

“Maeve?” Sinbad’s voice was concerned and the hand he dropped on her shoulder was gentle, though she could feel the tension radiating down his arm. “What’s wrong?”

“Eire,” she whispered.

“What?” He brought his head closer to hers. “Maeve? What did you say?”

“I have an idea. It may be our only hope—Cait’s only hope.” She raised her dark eyes to his. “Take me home, Sinbad.”

“Home?” His brows furrowed in confusion. “Baghdad?”

She snorted. “The Nomad is more home to me than Baghdad could ever be. No, Sinbad, take me _home._ To Eire.”

There was silence for a long moment, then Sinbad said, gently, “Maeve, it’s too far. We’d never get there in time.”

“We will if I help things along,” she said adamantly. “There is someone there…who I think will help us. Help me.”

There was silence for a moment, as Sinbad and his crew weighed the conviction in Maeve’s eyes against the doubt they felt that they could reach the green island in time. They had never been so far north before, nor so far west, and did not know what kind of conditions they might encounter. Sinbad was curious, for Maeve never mentioned her home if she could help it and certainly did not volunteer any information about her past. Why then, after seemingly abandoning her birthplace, was she so intent upon returning?

Maeve could sense their doubt, and anger flared in her eyes. “Sinbad! She is my daughter. Mine! I carried her, I bore her, and I will not see her die now. Do you hear me?”

“ _Ours_ , Maeve. You’re not the only one who cares about her, you know.” He sighed. “What will you do? How fast can you get us there?”

Maeve’s anger cooled slightly as she saw he was willing to consider the idea. “I can’t reorder time, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “I can give us as much wind as the Nomad can handle, day and night, without cease. Good winds. We can probably cut the traveling time in half.”

“Do you think that will be fast enough?” Sinbad asked. “We have never made that journey.”

Maeve paused, and her eyes were solemn when she raised them again. “It will have to be.”

“I say we trust her, Sinbad,” Doubar said quietly. “Nobody else has any better ideas, and we can’t just stay here. If Maeve thinks she knows somebody who can help, that’s one better than we have now.”

“There’s always Dim-Dim,” Firouz said.

Sinbad sighed and shook his head. “I’d rather take the chance in Eire than go to Dim-Dim when he’s almost assured Maeve that he can’t help. All right. Eire it is.” He turned to Maeve. “What do you need?”

She rose, feeling her headache intensify. She would have to hope she had enough strength to keep the spell going long enough to reach Eire. “I will need to trance,” she said. “Once I cast the spell, we will have strong winds day and night. Organize your crew accordingly, I will do the rest.”

Sinbad followed Maeve as she walked into their cabin, and he shut the door behind him. “Maeve,” he said, his voice soft as a caress. “Maeve.”

She turned, and he could see the exhaustion in her stance, in the droop of her shoulders and the dull sheen of her eyes. “This is going to take a lot out of me,” she said. “I need to start while I still can, Sinbad.”

“I know. But…” He drew her close, and she did not resist. “Please be careful. I could not bear to lose you, too.”

Maeve pressed her forehead against his, holding him gently. “You won’t lose either of us, if I have anything to say about it.” She felt his arms tighten around her, and closed her eyes. The handful of years they had spent together seemed like an instant in that moment, and Maeve tried to draw strength from him, strength to face what lay ahead for her. In that quiet moment she could hear with her inner ear the small, quick heartbeat of the new child, the one Sinbad did not yet know about. She opened her mouth to tell him, for in that moment she no longer felt it was fair to deny him this spot of light in their ever darkening lives, but shut it almost as quickly. She could no longer be so careless with her words, for she was no longer so sure they were alone. Any moment, Scratch or Rumina could be watching them. And she would not give them this damaging news willingly—what they could do to a young child was nothing compared to what they might dream up for the unborn. Before birth, children were very vulnerable to outside influences, be they good or evil, and Maeve was not willing to take that chance with her unborn son.

“Maeve?” Sinbad said. His voice was gentle, his hands firm on her waist. “What was it you were about to say?”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter right now.”

“You never say things that don’t matter,” he countered, his hands moving. He pulled her closer, and she settled her head on his shoulder. One of his hands drifted into her hair, twining gently around the curly red strands.

“It isn’t safe, Sinbad,” she whispered, her voice merely breathed into his ear. “Who knows who may be watching?”

His arms tightened protectively, and from that involuntary gesture she knew he had not previously considered that possibility. “Is that why you won’t tell me what you have planned?” he asked.

Maeve considered. The answer was no—she had not told Sinbad because she wasn’t sure herself exactly what she was going to do when they reached Eire, and also because she was not yet willing to reveal everything such an explanation would require. But this was a convenient excuse, one Sinbad would believe for the time being. After they were out of danger, he could question all he liked. She could decide how much to tell him then. “Yes,” she said.

“Ah.” His lips grazed her ear, her temple, the arch of her cheekbone. “I must ready the crew. Is there anything else you need?”

“Just your cooperation,” she said. “Promise me that.”

“You have my word, love,” he said, and he slowly released her.

“I will be in trance for the journey. Take care of Cait.”

Sinbad nodded, and Maeve settled onto the bed next to her daughter. She was about to spend days in trance, and lying down would be safer than trying to sit or stand for so long. She kissed Cait’s sleeping face several times, staring down at her little cheeks, pink with sleep, and her vibrant curls. She closed her eyes very deliberately, and willed herself into trance. Cait was the last thing she saw before the world became dark.

* * *

"Hey beautiful."

Maeve turned away from the sound, picking up another straw and attempting to weave it into the pattern of the basket. "I think I liked you better when you were a horse."

Colm grinned, his dark eyes startling. "That’s not what you said before," he observed, still smiling.

Maeve snorted, a rather undignified sound, before turning her hand so that the ruby on her ring reflected in his eyes. He paused in his lazy walking for a moment before flopping down on the ground with no apparent care as to where he landed. Somehow the gesture was as graceful as any other he made. Maeve rolled her eyes as Colm’s long fingers stroked through the grass and idly picked a long emerald blade.

"I’m choosing to ignore that statement," she said, continuing to fight with the basket. "Damn! I’m never going to get this right."

"Don’t swear like a Roman," Colm said suddenly, sitting up in one fluid gesture. His whole body went deathly still, his eyes and face more solemn than she had ever seen before. Maeve’s brow furrowed in confusion.

"Why should you care who I swear like? Besides, the Romans are the future of this land; Dearbháil says so."

Colm looked uncomfortable. "Not the too recent future, I hope."

At that, Maeve slid off the stone doorstep and knelt on the grass before him, brown eyes locked with brown. "Colm."

The corner of his soft mouth quirked in what might have been the faintest hint of a smile. "Careful, _mo cailín_ , in how you use that."

"I still don’t see how I can bind you." Maeve reached up with one hand, tracing the back of her fingers across his cheek. Colm, in a tender gesture that Maeve didn’t expect, caught her hand and turned it over, pressing his cheek into her palm. She gently stroked the soft skin with her thumb, watching him concernedly. He seemed almost pensive about something, preoccupied with some conflict within himself that he didn’t understand.

"But call my name, _mo cailín_ , and I will come, no matter where you are, so long as you remain in Eire and therefore where I can find you."

Maeve half-smiled, trying to lift the somber mood he seemed fixed on entertaining. "Must you call me something different every time I see you?"

Colm seemed to know the light comment was an attempt to draw him out of his disheartening contemplation of whatever was bothering him, and also seemed to agree with her desire. "Perhaps," he said, smiling a little. He drew her down with him on the sun-warmed grass, one hand playing with the bright lengths of her hair. "Tell me, Maeve—I know you don’t want fifty years of me, but what do you say to fifty days?"

One finely-sculpted eyebrow raised as Maeve sat up on one elbow. She plucked a blade of grass and placed it between her lips, tasting the green life of the plant’s juice. "What is this," she asked, droll amusement in her voice, "a limited-contract marriage?"

The fairy smiled. "You could call it that, I suppose. What do you say?"

Maeve considered this for a moment. For some reason she didn’t understand, the freckle-faced fairy was taken with her. She didn’t know why she intrigued him, but intrigue it was. There was something in his eyes when he looked at her, fascination of some sort that she didn’t understand. Maybe, she thought, he just didn’t understand what everyone else considered ordinary. Maybe he was bored with beautiful, exotic girls and he wanted a plain one to compare them with. She shrugged: it didn’t matter very much to her what he wanted. He was pleasant enough to talk to, confusing as he was, and a welcome respite from the empty twitterings of her fellow novitiates. And there was also the fact that he quite plainly still desired her body, something she didn’t mind in the least… Her mind wandered back to the eve of Beltane, and what they had done. No, she didn’t mind at all.

Turning back to the fairy, she studied his face. The fact that he looked as innocent as all get out didn’t mean one thing, especially not with the kind of fairy she knew him to be. "Two conditions," she said, knowing once they agreed on a deal they both would be bound by it—such was the fairy way.

"Ask and it will be done."

"One—no babies," she said firmly.

Colm nodded willingly. "No babies," he agreed readily.

"Two—you won’t ever ask me to enter Faerie." Maeve watched him closely.

The fairy looked at her for a moment before answering. "I can’t promise you that," he said, "but I will offer you this. You already know I cannot force you past the border between our worlds—you must pass it willingly or not at all. I am willing to promise that I will not use guile or deceit, or in any way bribe or threaten you past the border to Faerie. But I cannot promise that I will not ask."

Maeve considered this. He would obey the spirit of their promise, simply because he knew she expected it of him. He would not use guile or trickery to lead her into the fairyland, nor would he use their physical relationship to bribe or threaten her. But he would ask. He would ask, as fairies always asked, and she would have to refuse.

Maeve looked up into the freckled face and strange dark eyes, knowing the Romans would put her to death for even believing that such a one as Colm even existed. But he was warm and real, and she wanted him. Slowly, she pressed her palm into his outstretched hand. "I accept."

"As do I." _And, my treasure, I must find a way to prove to you that you belong with me, in Faerie, for eternity._ But he did not say this, for well he knew how she would react to such a statement, and what it might mean if she refused him.

* * *

The night wind whipped around her, but everything else seemed to have faded as Maeve gazed into the eyes of the gray pony stallion, the tips of her red hair freeing themselves from the hood of her cloak and whipping around in the wind. Brown eyes locked with brown.

"Please," she whispered. "Please. Help me."

* * *

The sun shone bright and strong, late summer gold, against the sun-warmed path as Maeve hurried back toward the Haven. She’d been gone a long while, and she was surprised how much she missed it. It had been on her mentor’s business that she left in the first place—she was nearly a priestess herself now, and she was allowed away from the walls of the Haven on priestess business. She had been taking a message to one of their brethren who was in hiding from the Romans; a journey of more than a week on foot. She missed her mentor terribly, as well as a few of the other apprentices at the Haven…and her fairy.

She hadn’t realized, when she agreed to the fifty days of contact, how much she would grow used to having him around. His presence was subtle, but, after her consent, it was nearly always there. He appeared inside the Haven sometimes, though never where any of the other people could see him. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them that no one else would know of the relationship they shared.

She hadn’t known, either, that the agreement would mean more than just the physical act of lovemaking. But Colm seemed fascinated by every aspect of her life, both past and present, and they talked—sometimes for hours at a time—about more than Maeve would have believed possible. She even found herself, without really even knowing why, telling him about her life in the slums of Dublin before her escape. She refused to talk about her stepfather, though. Some things, even now, were just too painful to discuss.

But there was a bond between her and the fairy now. She didn’t understand it, and she wasn’t quite sure when exactly it had formed, but it was there just the same. A small part of her was suspicious of this bond, though she had no reason to be. He was charming, and kind, and he never pushed farther than she was comfortable to let him go. When she didn’t want to talk about her past, he didn’t press the issue. When she was tired and didn’t want to be intimate, he respected that. He was, in all respects, the perfect lover. The only problem that she could articulate was that he was so distant all the time. There was some part of him that she could not reach, some part of him that she never saw. When she spoke to him of pain, or love, or any intense emotion, it was as if he didn’t understand what she was talking about. He acted interested, but he didn’t understand. There was something within him, perhaps his fairy blood, that did not allow him to comprehend the emotions she spoke about. That, perhaps, was what put her off about him. Why was he taking such time with her if he could not feel emotion as she did?

Sighing, Maeve shook her head and kicked at a loose stone with her toe. She didn’t want to worry about anything anymore. The sun was warm and golden, the birds were singing, and she wanted to enjoy this walk. All too soon she would be holed up in the audience chamber, discussing what could be done to help those of the brethren in exile. It was a real problem. Maeve’s brow furrowed in anger and frustration as she thought about it. Here, in this isolated village where most people still celebrated the old ways, it was easy to forget the revolution taking place within the hearts and minds of Eire’s populace. People were dying for their religion, dying because they refused to submit to the new teachings the Romans heralded. Maeve shivered. The talk she heard was bone-chilling, but it was all very far away. Big happenings such as massive burnings did not happen in remote villages such as hers. The Haven was safe. She was safe. Nothing could touch either of them.

"Maeve!"

Strong arms suddenly clasped her tightly, arms covered in coarse cloth. The scent of crushed heather was strong, which meant he’d been sweating. Maeve allowed the embrace as he spun her around, ending up with her facing the way she’d just come, away from the road to the Haven. She gave a surprised, breathy little laugh and touched his lips with a kiss.

"Colm! Why such a forward welcome?" she asked, thoughts of revolution and persecution flitting away with the warmth of his greeting. "I wasn’t gone that long." Maeve brushed some silver hair off his forehead, the sweat sticking it to his brow. All of a sudden she realized just how sweaty he actually was, and she noticed the strange smell that clung to him, masking the clean scent of heather. It was rather unpleasant; bitter and sharp. She looked at the fairy, really looked, for the first time. His face was haggard and drawn, dark circles appearing under his eyes. His hair was matted to his forehead in a tangled, sweaty mess, and his entire body was filthy. Maeve frowned. Colm was, she had to admit, rather lazy most of the time, and his idea of physical exertion was weaving garlands out of wildflowers. So why the sweat? Why the dirt, and frantic look in his eye?

"Colm?" she asked again, her voice now holding a fair amount of concern and uncertainty. "What’s wrong?" She motioned to his dirty clothing. "Has something happened?"

The fairy’s face was very solemn and very quiet. "Maeve," he said again, "you’ve no idea how relieved I am to see you!" He took her back into his arms, his embrace desperate. Maeve was surprised at the intense relief she felt from him, the crush of his arms around her, his body firm and strong against hers. This was not the self-assured, carefree fairy she knew!

The fairy tried to kiss her again, but Maeve pulled away. "Colm!" she chastised lightly. "I have to return to the Haven before they send an envoy after me. I’m already more than a day late." The last was true, though she didn’t think they’d actually send anybody after her. She was known to dawdle on long journeys, if only to stay out-of-doors for longer periods of time. No one at the Haven had an aversion to stone walls as acute as Maeve’s. She personally thought it was her time within the confining walls of Dublin that had formed this fear of entrapment, though she didn’t tell anyone this.

Maeve turned to face the homeward path again, but the fairy’s arms remained about her. She turned surprised eyes upon him at this, for never before had he refused to release her, but his arms remained, firm bands of iron around her waist.

"Let go, fairy," Maeve said, a little irritated, as she struggled to free herself. She had learned not to use his name when making a request, for doing so would bind him to obey, and she had promised him never to bind him in such a way. Now she was almost regretting that promise, as he stubbornly refused to let go. "Colm, please!"

The horse-man turned her head toward him, forcing her to meet his eyes. There was a sorrow there unlike any Maeve had ever seen within his eyes, a very human sorrow. "No, Maeve," he said softly, his voice full of infinite sorrow. "You are not returning to the Haven. There is nothing left for you there."

For the first time, Maeve stepped back far enough for the sight of him to register. He was filthy, yes, but not with dirt. It was too grey, too powdery, to be soil.

Ashes. That was the scent which clung to him. Maeve stared, openmouthed, at the ash covering him. It dulled his silver hair to a greyish-brown and covered his cream-colored shirt until it was more of a dirty clay color. His skin, usually fair, was pale as death.

Several still, silent moments passed, and not a breath of wind stirred the tiny stretch of road where the fairy and his consort stood in noiseless conversation. Maeve found that even the tiny sound of her breathing was altogether too loud for this unearthly silence. Her heart was beating right in her ears, her pulse throbbing painfully in throat and wrist.

Suddenly she tried to turn, wanting to see behind her, to where the Haven lay. But the fairy was faster, and his arms refused to let her turn. Her neck would not crane far enough to permit her to see where the very tip of the castle’s roof showed above the treetops.

"Sweet one, you don’t want to look back."

"Let me go!" Maeve struggled ineffectually against the fairy’s grip. His arms held the strength of granite, yet they did not hurt her. "Please! Colm…"

"Why?" he demanded, his voice suddenly harsh. "So your eyes may look upon death? There is nothing left for you there, I say!"

"No!" she shot back, swiveling her head around to glare him full in the face. "That can’t be true! The Romans never bothered us, they never came around here! They left us alone, you can’t be right, it can’t be gone…" she babbled, knowing she wasn’t making any sense and not really caring. His arms around her were beginning to hurt, and she pulled reflexively away from him.

Colm gave a disgusted sigh and released her, stepping away. Maeve stumbled backward and nearly fell at the sudden release. "Fine," he said, turning away. "Have it your way."

Maeve, ignoring the oozing sarcasm his voice held, pushed past him and flung her body down the trail toward her home. She didn’t know if he followed or not; in truth she didn’t care. The faces of her friends and mentors flashed continually through her mind. They could not all be gone; surely they could not! She thought of the baby girl Mirra had borne just a few weeks earlier, and the giggling little girls, their faces so full of light and hope and promise. Surely no fire could have taken them all! There would be survivors; of that she was certain. Yes, some people would have perished, or else Colm would not have tried to keep her away. But there had to be survivors, amid the rubble. She prayed that Dearbháil, her mentor, was among them.

The empty stone skeleton of the Haven was still smoking when Maeve stumbled into the clearing. A charred body lay across the gaping portal where the proud oaken doors once stood. Maeve knelt and peered at the figure, holding her breath against the sickeningly sweet smell of death. The body was a woman, and she had been pregnant.

Maeve couldn’t think. The scent of ashes hung in the air, heavy and smoky-sweet. She coughed reflexively, air refusing to enter her lungs. It was as if the ashes made it too thick to breathe, the scent cloying even the life-giving oxygen and refusing to let it do its job. The clearing was silent; a tomb. Not even the scavengers had dared desecrate that perfect quiet—not yet.

The roof had all burned away, leaving blue sky to wink between the walls of soot-blackened stone. Maeve looked up, searching for the timbered ceilings and bronze chandeliers so familiar to her. Instead, only weak sunshine poured down into the desecrated holy place. It was almost as if the sun himself were embarrassed to be shining when so much sorrow was at hand.

Maeve stumbled on the charred cobblestone, giving an involuntary sob in her throat as she stepped inside what used to be her home. The stone she had dislodged clattered against its fellows and sent small, hostile echoes ricocheting off the walls. Maeve winced. There was nothing alive here. It was destroyed as completely as if it had never been. Worse than if it had never been, for there is no sorrow in absence, only in endings. And this was an ending that Maeve was sure was not meant to be. She stared at the desolation of what had once been her home. There was nothing left.

Piles of rubble littered the large enclosure, and Maeve saw cloth sticking out from beneath some of the heaps. She didn’t have the stomach to go and see what that burned material belonged to.

"I did warn you."

Maeve whirled around so he could not see her tears. "Go away!" She rubbed at her cheeks, dashing at the moisture. But Colm sensed it, as he always sensed what she tried to hide. He always knew what she didn’t want him to.

" _Dealan-dé_ , are you crying?" He sounded honestly surprised. "Why?"

"I hate you!" Maeve cried, needing something to lash out at. His ignorance and lack of human emotion appalled her, but she couldn’t find it in her heart to actually hate him no matter what her words said. He was not human; he could not be expected to feel emotion the way she did.

Colm ignored her outburst. "It wasn’t an accident, you know."

Maeve froze and looked at him for the first time, her eyes wide and wet with tears. The fairy stood and stepped toward her. Raising his hand, he touched a single strand of red-gold hair.

"You are so beautiful," he said, as if to himself.

Maeve jerked away from his touch. "Leave me alone! You have no idea what this portends!"

At this, Colm’s manner grew serious, and he looked straight into her tearful brown eyes. "On the contrary, my lady, I know much, much more than you of what this portends." He reached forward and grasped her shoulders in his hands, his slender fingers digging into her flesh. "Hush and pay attention. Your people were killed very systematically, and it was planned well in advance. The Roman troops have sped up their invasion of your land, crushing everything that stands in the way of their beliefs." His dark fairy eyes bored into her. "Maeve, there is so much more at stake than your home!"

"I don’t care!" Her temper flared and she tried to break away from him. "Leave me alone! What have I to live for now that they are all gone?"

"Did I say they were all gone?"

Colm’s voice was slightly mocking, but his words made Maeve stop instantly. "They are not all gone, _dealan-dé_."

"Then where are they?"

Colm sighed, but didn’t look away from her. "In my home."

The eerie silence of the tomb stretched out for long moments before Maeve spoke again. She took a deep breath and let it out again, her chest quivering with the effort she exerted to keep from crying again. "Your home?"

"Yes. In Faerie."

"Oh no. No, Colm, you promised!" she started, trying to stop him from attempting to lead her into the other world, into the realm of Faerie. She didn’t know exactly what was to be feared from such a journey, now that there was nothing binding her to this world, but the thought of crossing over still filled her with fear. There were too many strange and frightening stories of the fairy’s world for her to feel comfortable discussing crossing into it.

"I promised not to use our relationship to lure you to me," the fairy replied. "But, _dealan-dé_ , this is different. The Queen has decreed that as many followers of the Old Ways as can be rescued from the Romans should be brought to Faerie and kept there until such time as it is safe to return you to the mortal world."

Maeve looked at her fairy, confused. "But why? Why should the queen of Faerie care about mortals at all, no matter what their religion is?"

Colm shrugged. "It’s self-interest, really. The Romans would kill us, as well, if they knew we truly existed. You live in harmony with us. It’s in our own interest for your people to remain on the earth, to not die out upon the invaders’ cross and pyres." He looked into her eyes. "It has been foretold, Maeve; your death. If you do not follow me now, they will find you, they will torture you, and they will kill you."

"But—"

"I do not want that. I wish for you to live." Colm continued to gaze at her. "Fairies cannot regret, Maeve. You know that, right? We can feel sorrow, sometimes, when the price that has been paid is terribly high. We can, but we often do not." He shifted, as if he felt uncomfortable speaking to her so candidly. "Maeve, I will feel sorrow if you refuse me now, for this is the only time I am allowed to request for you to join me. I am only permitted to ask once. This is my once. If you do not come now, I cannot ask again, and you may not change your mind." He sighed and looked down for a moment, as if meeting her eyes had become too painful. "I will feel sorrow if that is your decision, but I cannot regret it—I cannot regret anything, for regret is a human emotion. Please. Do not ask me to be what I can never be. I realize I am not human." He sighed. "But, please. Reconsider. I do not wish to watch you die."

"Most people would be begging you to take them, wouldn’t they?" Maeve asked softly.

"Most people are not as wise as you. You know what it is you give up when you accept my hand."

Maeve thought for a long moment. She did not want to die upon a Roman cross, and she wanted to be reunited with what few people Colm and his brethren had rescued from the fires. But was that enough to make her change her mind and enter Faerie? She knew well what she was giving up—freedom. As a mortal living in the realm of fairies, there was much she could not do. And there was no guarantee she would ever leave that mystical land, dead or alive. Centuries could pass, and she would not grow older. But would she ever be allowed to leave? That was what she needed to know. She needed the option of leaving Faerie behind.

"I will go," she told her fairy slowly, "on one condition."

"Name it," Colm whispered, breathy with excitement.

"I want the option to leave Faerie if I wish to."

"You know that if I grant such a request, you will never be able to return to it again."

Maeve nodded. "I know. But a prison is a prison, whether made of stone walls or magic. I cannot be held to one place for my entire life."

He smiled, a little wistfully. "Somehow, I knew that. But, for as long as we have, will you be by my side?" He held out his hand, as silence stretched between them.

Mortal fingers clasped his fairy hand. "I will."

* * *

“You stay _here_.”

Sinbad opened his mouth to argue, but she clamped a hand over it to still his protests. “Listen,” she said, biting the words out tightly between her teeth, “and listen well, because I am only going to say this once. I am going ashore, and I am going alone. You are staying here. You may send one or two crewmembers with me to help me row, because I honestly do not know how much strength I have left. But they are staying with the longboat until I return, and you are staying on the ship because I don’t trust you.”

She released the pressure on his mouth and he immediately protested. “Maeve, have a little sense!”

“According to you, I never have—why should I start now?”

“You’ve been pushing yourself to the limit to get us here, and now you expect me to let you leave alone and go who knows where with no escort?”

“Yes. I do.” She risked a look up at him in the driving rain. It was growing dark, and the flinty look in her eyes made Sinbad shiver. He wasn’t going to win and he knew it, but he couldn’t help arguing with her. If she would just listen to reason once in a while he would be more willing to compromise, but she refused. And she usually won.

“This is my home, sailor,” she said, “and it is a land extremely foreign to you. Let me go—we’re running out of time.”

“We’d save time if you’d just admit that taking me along is a good idea.”

“It’s a terrible idea,” she shot back, “and I’m not discussing this any more with you. I have to meet someone, and I don’t think he’d show up if you were tagging along with me.”

Sinbad’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Just who, exactly, are you going to meet?”

Maeve turned back toward the foggy shoreline. “An old friend—I hope.”

“You hope?”

“He has a bad memory.”

“Wonderful.”

“I’m hoping I stood out from the crowd.”

“How? Did you seduce him?”

“No,” Maeve said, her voice low. “I betrayed him.”

* * *

“You left.”

“I did.” The wind whipped her heavy brown cloak around her shoulders and blew the hood off of her head. Long red strands of hair swirled around her neck under the fitful light. Clouds scudded across the sky, showing ragged glimpses of a weak moon.

“Why did you leave?”

He looked exactly the same, Maeve thought, and it frightened her. The years had changed her, but not him. He remained the vision of unearthly perfection he had first revealed to her on a Beltane night so many moons ago. It had been a calm, warm night and she had had few cares on her mind. Not so now.

“You lied to me.”

“Did I?” He sounded vaguely amused. “When?”

Maeve swallowed. Time was running out. Cait was wasting away even as they spoke, her breaths growing shallower, her heartbeat weaker. They had made it to Eire within the pledged week, but only just. She had until midnight, and it was past ten now. She didn’t want to be here dredging up vague memories of the past that still brought with them all-too-real pain. Particularly not with the fairy that had lied to her and forced a betrayal she had never meant—never wanted—to commit. “You said some had lived,” she said. “You said the Romans had not slaughtered them all.”

“I told you the truth.”

“You told me what I wanted to hear!” she snapped back at him. “You tricked me into going with you into Faerie, with the hopes that most had survived and been saved.”

“You heard what you wanted to hear,” he argued, and Maeve fell silent. That much was true, but she had been too rash, too headstrong and heartsore to realize that by his rules Colm had done nothing wrong. It mattered little to him that his rules were considerably more ambiguous than her own mortal ones. It was she who had broken the rules. “I told you the truth—mostly. I said some survived.”

“One is not some!”

“Counting you, actually, it was two,” he said. “So, from a certain point of view, I was correct.” He looked at her sadly. “You have become a magnificent woman, Maeve, but I am not sure you are my butterfly anymore.”

“To be sure I am not.”

“Then why are you here?”

She looked at him, and sighed. “I crave a boon.”

“Really.” He looked at her with interest. “Any service done for a mortal requires an equal or greater sacrifice.”

“I know that.”

“What do you ask?”

“My daughter,” Maeve said, the words coming in a rush. “She’s been cursed by the demon, Scratch. Her life hangs by a thread that will be cut at midnight unless the curse can be broken.”

“Daughter?” The fairy’s interest intensified. “The mortal girl who swore to me she would never bear children has finally reneged? What king’s ransom was paid to you, what promises I could not make, has secured this boon from you?”

“None save one,” she said quietly. “The love you could never give me.”

“I treasured you.”

“I did not want to be treasured,” Maeve replied. “I wanted to be loved.”

Colm considered her for a long moment. Maeve clenched her teeth and stood her ground, aware of the precious seconds ticking away but refusing to hurry him. That would only make him stall longer. “Whatever became of the bird-boy?” he said suddenly.

“I freed him, as I vowed I would when I left you,” Maeve replied. “It took a long time, but as the last two survivors of the Haven, I owed him that much.”

“More than you owed me for saving him?”

Maeve shook her head. “Do not try your trickery, fairy, I know you did nothing to save him. He saved himself after the witch cursed him, by flying into Faerie.”

“The Romans kept her around for sport, you know,” Colm said lazily. “She turned many of your fellows into animals, and the soldiers hunted them down with bow and spear.”

“I know,” Maeve said grimly.

“They know the true nature of magic, and wished to subvert it. She was no danger to them, but you were.”

“I know,” Maeve said again.

“You are with child again.”

“I know that, too,” she said.

“It is a boy, this time.”

“Yes,” she said.

“I would find infinite jest in it if you named him after me.”

“I just might,” Maeve said, “and be forever calling your name so you could not sleep at night.”

“Nonsense. The magic has more sense than that.” He looked around. “I make no promises, and have not yet decided on the sacrifice. But I will look at this daughter of yours, _dealan-dé._ Shall we go?”

Maeve knew the fight was not over yet, but still she felt as if a great weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “Thank you,” she said, turning to retrace her path across the wild, rocky burren.

“Do not thank me yet,” he said, his voice floating to her on the wind.

* * *

The night was full of mist and rain, and the weak moon shone only fitfully through the clouds. Sinbad had finally given up his vigil on deck, for he could see nothing—no trace of the longboat or the shore, though it lay close by. No lights shone on the land; none, at least, that he could see.

He sat in his cabin, Cait tucked firmly in the big bed, and listened to her breaths grow shallower and shallower and her rosy cheeks turn paler and paler. She was wasting away before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He took one small hand in his own. It was limp and turning cold. Sitting still and doing nothing was the hardest thing he had ever done, but there was nothing else he could do except have faith in Maeve and her mysterious friend. He knew they could have more children, and he knew that small children died all the time, but he wasn’t sure how he could stand the loss of this one, this firstborn girl who looked so like Maeve. Before she had been born he had wanted a son, but from the moment Maeve had placed her in his arms he had vowed to care for and cherish this redheaded daughter he had been given. He had never looked back from that moment, and had no regrets. If she died, her shadow would always haunt the Nomad.

A sudden noise at the door made Sinbad jerk and whirl around. Maeve entered, dropping her heavy cloak on the floor without so much a glance in his direction. Close behind her walked the most beautiful man Sinbad had ever seen. Instant jealousy pricked his heart. The man was delicately built, with the sinuous grace of a finely-bred horse, and he was tall. His strange hair was golden, tipped with black, and his features were fine and regal. He turned his eyes on Sinbad, and Sinbad caught his breath in surprise. The man’s eyes were completely black, with no visible sclera at all and no definition, at least in the dimly-lit cabin, between pupil and iris. Something about those eyes unnerved Sinbad, but the man’s liquid grace made him more jealous than he could ever remember being. This man must have known Maeve when she was a young girl. Could he be more than the friend she claimed? A past lover, perhaps?

The unearthly man smirked, just a slight quirk of his mouth, and Sinbad had the sinking feeling that he knew exactly what he’d been thinking.

“Here,” Maeve said, recalling them both to the urgency of the moment. It was near midnight, and the hourglass was almost empty. Cait coughed once, and there was a long moment before she took another small breath. Maeve bent over her daughter and swept a hand over her forehead. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I am here.”

The strange man looked down on the sleeping child for a long moment. His face was unreadable—a mask. Sinbad did not feel inclined to trust him, but he did trust Maeve and felt it was wise to keep his mouth shut for the moment.

“She is lovely,” the stranger said. “Quite remarkable, really.”

“Can you save her?”

“No.”

The word hung in the air for a long moment. It was as if all sound ceased. Then the stranger smiled. “I am no lord of the Fae, no favorite of the Queen, and my power is not to create or destroy. It is, rather, to change.” Maeve was still watching him as if there were hope left, so Sinbad forced himself to continue breathing. “This is what I offer you, Maeve, and I warn you—it is both punishment for your betrayal and an answer to your wish. I cannot break the curse, but I can change it. You spoke my true name once and forced me to let you go—you broke the sacred trust I had placed in you and broke the ties that bound us together. What I offer you will reattach what was sundered, but there will be a scar.”

“What are you offering?”

“This curse upon her is not one of merely death, but the pledging of her soul. You have two choices. If you do nothing, the curse will be fulfilled, Scratch will receive her soul, and she will die. If you accept my offer, I will transfer the focus of the curse to me. I will become regent for her soul, and her life will be forfeit to me.” He looked at Maeve solemnly. “I will allow you to keep and rear her, but on her fifteenth birthday you must return her to me, here, to take into Faerie.”

“What if she does not live to be fifteen?”

“No deadly harm shall come to her while I am regent to her soul. She has great potential, _dealan-dé_ ; greater than you did.”

“What is the point of locking it up in Faerie?”

“She will become immortal, for all intents and purposes. You will be assured she will outlive you both.” His eyes flicked back to Sinbad for the first time in the conversation. “Isn’t that a parent’s greatest wish? To never bury a child?”

Maeve was silent for a long moment. Sinbad could feel the tension in the room, and knew that they would have to accept though the bargain was far from ideal. He did not trust this man, but even so he would rather entrust his daughter to the stranger’s care than Scratch’s. Scratch and Rumina could not be permitted to win.

“She must be allowed some free will,” Maeve said finally. “If we bring her, she must have a choice.”

It was the stranger’s turn to think, and Sinbad glanced at the sand slipping away in the hourglass. There were precious seconds left.

“You bring her to me at fifteen,” he said. “For three mortal years she will stay on Eire, outside Faerie. At eighteen you may return, and she will make her choice.”

“Are you so confident, then?”

He smiled, and the smile was terrifying. “I could not keep the mother, though I promised her the very things she had ever lacked and yearned for. I will not make the same mistake twice. The daughter is forfeit to me.”

Maeve looked at Sinbad, and the question hung in her eyes. He nodded slowly, and she turned back to the stranger. “We accept,” she said quietly.

“Done!” the stranger said, and a strong, strange smell whipped through the cabin. He raised a hand, a hand that glowed and glimmered with unearthly light, and touched one fingertip to Caitrionna’s pale lips. Slowly, she took a breath, and the light seemed to enter her. She exhaled, and the noxious red smoke came out. Sinbad let out a breath he had not known he’d been holding, and came closer to the bed. Cait opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw was not her parents. It was the stranger, outlined in shimmering silver light, his black-tipped hair hanging fetchingly in his eyes as he bent over the bed.

“Hello, little butterfly,” he said.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“An old friend,” he replied. His smile was ironic. “Let’s not get into names just now.”


End file.
